


A Styrofoam Cup of Soup

by theorchardofbones



Series: Promptio Ficlets & Drabbles [2]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Gen, Prompto is a big baby when he's sick, TLC, but Gladiolus is happy to make sure he's comfortable
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-24
Updated: 2017-06-24
Packaged: 2018-11-18 13:16:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11291445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theorchardofbones/pseuds/theorchardofbones





	A Styrofoam Cup of Soup

It seems cruel to have a cold when the sun shines gloriously overhead, but such is Prompto’s plight. He’s been coughing and spluttering all morning, and generally feeling sorry for himself; it doesn’t help that the guys have no sympathy for him.

It’s not that it’s his own fault, not really. How was he supposed to know taking a dip in the river to get a shot of a bird on the far side would wind up with him getting sick? Try telling that to the others, though — to Noct, who mocks his nasal voice every time he talks, or to Ignis who looks down at him, merely pushing his glasses up with a little sniff.

Then there’s Gladio, who all but forcibly drags him from the car every time they get out, heedless of his protests. Yeah, Gladio is the worst.

Prompto has a blanket wrapped around him where he sits in the passenger side, head ducked low to guard against the cool spring breeze.

They’re far from the major settlements when the sun starts to set, but they hit a truck stop with a rental camper long before dark. He’s glad they won’t be camping out tonight, glad he won’t have to put up with rocks digging into his back on top of how miserable he already feels.

The others hit the store; he goes straight for the camper and takes the bottom bed in the bunk at the back. He’s drifting in and out of consciousness when the door screeches open, hinges in dire need of oil. He pokes his head out from under the layers of blankets over him and sees Gladiolus standing by the edge of the bed.

‘We’re eating at the Crow’s Nest,’ Gladiolus says. ‘You coming?’

With a miserable little sniff, Prompto shakes his head.

‘That’s okay. I’m not really hungry.’

That’s a lie — he’s starving, but the thought of dragging himself out of the heaven that is his cosy bundle of blankets and pillows is too much to stomach.

Gladiolus shrugs, turns his back on Prompto and heads out the door.

Prompto doesn’t know how long he’s been asleep when the door squeaks open again. It’s full dark now, the lights of the pit stop filtering in through the shades on the windows and leaving bands across Gladiolus’s skin as he moves across the camper.

He ducks down to his haunches and pulls at the blankets; as Prompto wriggles out from underneath, he thinks through his stuffy sinuses he can smell food. Whatever it is, it smells good.

Gladiolus has a styrofoam cup in his hand, filled to the brim with something that looks like soup: full of veggies and beans, and steaming hot.

‘You sure you’re not hungry?’ he says, and when Prompto pulls himself up into a sitting position he smirks knowingly.

Once Prompto is upright he hands over the cup and a little plastic spoon before settling himself down on the floor, back against the edge of the bunk.

He stays while Prompto eats, getting up from time to time to grab a glass of water or napkins as requested. He even brings Prompto a box of tissues and holds out the waste basket for Prompto to dump the used tissues into.

‘Why are you being so nice?’ Prompto asks, mopping at his nose with a tissue.

Gladiolus pats his hand down on Prompto’s hair, ruffles at it companionably.

‘Because,’ he says, ‘you’re infuriating when you’re sick. Only way you’re gonna get any better is with a little TLC.’

Prompto sniffs in appreciation. It’s probably the nicest thing Gladiolus has ever said to him.

Gladio tucks him in, leaving a glass of water by his bed alongside the box of tissues. Prompto feels like he’s a little kid again, on the rare occasions when his mom had enough time to look after him while sick. When he feels a cool hand rest on his forehead, he sinks happily into his pillow and closes his eyes.

‘You don’t feel too feverish,’ a voice says, fading in and out of Prompto’s awareness as sleep threatens to take over again. ‘I’ll be back in a little while to check on you.’

‘Thanks, mom,’ he says sleepily. ‘I love you.’

There’s a soft chuckle; the hand ruffles at his hair again.

‘Yeah, you too buddy.’

He doesn’t hear the retreating footsteps, doesn’t hear the door carefully open and close again. He’s aware of two familiar voices speaking quietly outside and their shared laughter, but soon he’s out for the count.

He dreams of warm soup, of gentle fingers threaded through his hair.


End file.
